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“Yes. It doesn’t seem so evil anymore.”
Dave’s blue eyes flash at my choice of words, but it’s true that the first time I heard the voice it felt insidious, like a person was lying right behind me in my bed with a knife raised over my head.
“What do you think this voice represents?”
“Well, I’m sure my brain is trying to make sense of things while I sleep, but I’m struggling to hang onto anything as I return to consciousness.”
“A valid hypothesis. You said the notes are very clear to you, distinct and sharp before fading away.”
“It sounds like someone’s calling my name,” I confirm. “Like the song is singing directly into my heart.”
If your name is Debbie and you hear someone shoutingAva, you don’t turn and see who’s calling for you because you know it’s not meant for you. But when you hear your name called, you instinctively react. Your hearing is crystal clear and sharp. That’s what these notes feel like to me. My name.
The silence Dave is so fond of lasts for a long time. Eventually, he asks, “Do you think your mind is reaching for answers now?”
“Possibly. The notes feel very personal to me. That they have a purpose and are calling me to attention.”
“An awakening?”
The voice gives me confidence. I was done living in suspended grief. It was why running was so appealing, a way to overcome the stress and anxiety. “I hope so.”
“I can hear the guilt in your voice,” Dave placates. “Dissociative amnesia is common after extreme emotional, psychological and physical trauma. You’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, Ava. It’s not healthy to blame yourself for the brain’s defensive mechanisms.”
“I can’t help but feel like the shittiest person that ever lived.” If I can fill in the blank hole in my head, maybe I can help other trafficked women. Women that might still be out there enduring things no person should endure.
Feeling morose, I sink into the chair as Dave scribbles down our exchange. It allows me to self-critique, and I’m good at that—someone who lives for logic and processes and answers.
Laying down his pen, Dave says soberly, “Let’s concentrate on the positives. It feels like you’re readying for something. The voice seems to be calling to you with more regularity, and this could be your brain’s way of preparing you for what comes next.”
I nod, a tremor running through me at what will be unveiled.Ifanything will be unveiled. I want to know. I’m so tired of not remembering, of feeling useless and helpless.
Mentally, I scream at myself:Get on with it, Ava! Where the fuck were you! Who was there? What did you see? What happened to you?
What HAPPENED to you?!
“I’m ready,” I whisper, willing strength into my voice. “I’m ready.”
CHAPTERTWO
AVA
“As if it’s that easy?”my sister, Tilly, grumbles, throwing her hands out wide. “Honestly, these counsellors seem to know bugger all. Try not to be upset by his comments.”
Nate, my brother-in-law of three years, hands me a mug of tea before passing Tilly her own. Isla’s in her high chair, making a mess of her pureed dinner on the plastic tray as we sit around the kitchen table.
“Sounds like it was a useful session to me,” Nate counters. He’s about my height—too short for me, but he’s taller than Tilly. With sandy blond hair and a shy smile, he and Tilly make the perfect couple.
Tilly regards me with a questioning look.
“It might be hard to flip that switch and start remembering,” I tell her, “but he reinforced my view that the voice, although a little haunting at times, is not nefarious, but encouraging. It’s calling to me. It’s pulling me forwards.”
My sister smiles cautiously. “Well, it’s good that Dave seems to be of help. Just remember how far you’ve come already.”
“I’ve done fuck all to help the police,” I remind her.
“I meantyouhave come a long way. It’s beensix weeks, Ava. Two of those you were dealing with Jonas while refusing to leave the house. And then you hear that voice, and you gain the confidence to venture to the shops with me, to start running.On your own!There was a time you wouldn’t open the door to the delivery men. That is all necessary, important progress, Ava. Don’t discount the small stuff.”
She’s right, but there’s more I could do. “It helps that I don’t have any memories to hold me back,” I point out. “When, and if, I do remember, maybe I’ll be worse.”
